


There to Help

by SacredMorningStar



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Asylum, DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE FILM, Do not post to another site, Don't Post to Any Other Site, Gen, Major plot spoilers, Mental Illness, Spoilers, Strictly for AO3, Strictly for Archive of Our Own, Trigger Warnings Death, Trigger warning violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SacredMorningStar/pseuds/SacredMorningStar
Summary: This work came from the Fan Theory connected with the end scene in Joker (2019). Please do not read this fic if you haven't watched the film as it does contain spoilers for major plot points in the film!The Reader is a specialist in Psychopathic and Sociopathic conditions and had been sent Arthur's notes as part of a new case. What she finds is unnerving and unsettling but is his reality truth or fiction to cover the pain caused by very powerful figures.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck & Reader, Arthur Fleck & You, Joker & Reader, Reader & Arthur Fleck, Reader & Joker, You & Arthur Fleck
Kudos: 22





	There to Help

(Y/N) had been one of the few therapists in America that had specialised in psychopathy and sociopathy, the difference between them, and how to manage and treat the conditions. She had wanted to help those that people forgot or ignored, and wanted to find something to help ease the damaging and dangerous thoughts that came with the condition. Her newest case, which she was on her way to, was going to be a whole new challenge with some very serious and extreme situations which surrounded him. His history was full of cruelty and coldness, and was clearly part of what built him into what he was within Arkham Asylum; the place he was hidden away in. She read through Arthur Fleck’s history, his treatments, his therapies, and what future treatments were planned should her therapy fail to treat him. Arkham was not well known for the positive treatment of its patients, and she feared that his care there might only make him worse and continue to trigger more episodes of violence and mania.

His history was extensive, had been recorded dutifully, was highly detailed, and as she read through it all, in the taxi on the final leg of her long journey, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the man and what he went through as a boy. She couldn’t let sympathy cloud her judgement, but she could see why he wasn’t a well-functioning member of society after everything he had been through. There seemed to be rare moments of lucidity, where he seemed to realise why he was where he was, but they were often brief and usually ended in violence, blood and a manic chase through the halls of the asylum often frustrating the nursing staff. Knowing he could be so fragile would make her move much more carefully around the sessions they would share as she could never be sure which mind-set he would be in.

She felt the taxi stop outside Arkham Asylum and watched the shadows of people moving in and out of rooms; barred windows preventing anyone from escaping out. The few people in view seemed to be pacing, seemed to be on edge, or were moving with purpose through the rooms checking for something; those with purpose clearly the staff with the way the shadows held themselves. As she looked over the building, there seemed to be an edge of something dark and dangerous; something she felt before but never so intensely. This asylum seemed to have a darker corruption, which cloaked the massive mansion of insanity, and seemed to corrupt even those visiting the ‘so-called’ hospital along with the residents in ways no one could really understand. She headed into the building feeling a chill seemingly follow her even as she headed deep into the asylum to begin her investigation taking her away from the cold weather outside. She had signed in, been given a badge, and was escorted into the interview room leaving her there to wait for her patient to be brought into her.

She had asked to see him in his room, had been trying to arrange seeing him in his ‘own’ space, in the place he spent the most time, to see how he behaved within that room and how different it might be compared to being in the interview room. She needed to know which room he would be more responsive in, where her therapies and treatments might be more effective, She sat in the yellowed room, clearly once perfectly white-washed but discoloured with age, tucking the files she’d brought with her deep into the bag she he brought with her, not wanting the affect his state too much. She had her notebook and a pen on the table, a whole new one for each patient, a routine she’s found difficult to break, and watched as the nurses seemed to pull the man into the room; clearly seeing him resist a little and drag his feet as he was brought in. She was apprehensive seeing his resistance as she couldn’t tell what state he was in or how he would even respond to her knowing how dangerous he had been with newcomers before her.

She hadn’t really known what to expect when they brought Arthur in, but he was much worse than she thought. He seemed partially starved, held his body at uncomfortable angles with a slight twist to his back, a gaunt face and crooked teeth, everything building him into looking weak and pathetic; (Y/N) knowing better than to trust appearances. His hair was poorly kept but he was clean shaven, clearly something done by the staff, the messy mane of curls seemed to be more like an ill-fitting wig than his actual hair, but what stood out were his vibrant, green eyes. She watched as the nurses brought him to his chair, one opposite her, and seemed to make himself as small as he could in the seat avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone around him. One of the nurses seemed to lean down close to the man to whisper something into his ear making him tense up and pick at the table; his eyes flicking quickly between the her and the table anxiously.

He seemed to wait for the pair that had brought him in to leave before he even risked relaxing a little and letting his attention drift to the stranger opposite him. He seemed to study her with careful interest although his eyes didn’t linger on her too long and constantly flicked back to the corner of the table he was picking at. Every time those eyes lingered on her, just a little longer than the last, it sent a chill down (Y/N)’s spine and even the pathetic look of the overly baggy clothes couldn’t distract her.

“You another that thinks they know me?” His eyes had shifted to the bag on the floor which she quickly moved to pull it between her feet. “You think those tell you everything about me? About what is wrong with me?”

The distain in his voice when he emphasised the word wrong seemed to echo around the room only making the room feel more tense and the air almost much thicker. He still stared at the corner of the table, refusing to look at her, but the deep chuckling he was fighting betrayed the anxiety and nervousness building inside him. He was clearly fighting to push the laugher down, smothering himself as laugher bubbled in his throat, and (Y/N) stayed quiet giving Arthur time to calm down.

“Papers can only tell you what you’re allowed to know or what they want me to know. It’s a one-way view of looking at someone and it doesn’t tell me enough about the why. It only says the what.” She made a few notes in her book and kept her voice gentle and soft so she didn’t trigger anything. “I want to know about you, not what you did or do. I am here to hear you, not follow their notes. If I was only going to follow their notes I wouldn’t have come here to talk to you myself.”

He looked over her slowly, his eyes finally staying on her, and searched her eyes for something she wasn’t sure he found. There was a strange fascination just under the surface of those vibrant eyes, seemingly putting the puzzle of the woman before him, a curiosity wondering just what she was there for. Slowly, he began to uncurl, to lean back in his seat, to be a little more open to her as she simply sat and watched him.

“Do you know why you’re here? Do you remember what brought you to be here?” She watched him carefully, watched how he reacted, and carefully took notes.

He tensed up quickly when he heard her question and his eyes flicked to where the bag had been on the floor. He could feel his anxiety building and his laughter began to fill his lungs again after only just settling it down. The memories crept in, the truth, the lies, all of it at once, and suddenly his eyes seemed to change from fascinated to a cold, hard gaze before he looked to the table picking at it again.

“Again I’m sure the file will tell you that, I mean why ask that? Weren’t you told all that when you came in? I am certain they tell you all that at the door.” He looked around before she pulled out a cigarette drawing his attention. “You have one spare? You can light it.”

“As I said, I want to hear from you, I want to know you, not what they tell me. I want to know from you what you know and have heard. I don’t care what they think, I want to speak to you, so if I give you one, will you tell me. If I share with you, would you tell me everything?”

He was very clearly suspicious of her, questioning why she was interested in something like that, but he couldn’t help wondering what she might think of the truth if he told her it. He wondered would she truly believe him, believe the truth about how he got there and not the story that was written in his file. The lies on those pages angered him as he knew what the truth was, and anyone he told, any therapist that came to him were clearly not listening, they just seemed to brush his truth off as lies. Could he be sure that she would be the same as the others? Would she be just like them and ignore his life as a fantasy? She seemed to be genuinely interested, she refused to look at the files now, and her gaze seemed soft and concerned as he shifted and rocked in his seat.

“I swear Arthur, that I am here to listen to whatever you want to tell me. I know the ones who came before me haven’t, but I want to hear your history. I came all the way here to learn about you and what you may need to help you.”

“If you really want to hear it then fine. You wouldn’t be the first to ignore it and I highly doubt you would be the last. They all asked the same questions, would ignore the answers they didn’t think fitted with their thoughts, would just write it off as some fantasy or delusion. Just keep in mind this story is about pain, lies and brutal murders which usually scare people far away from me.”

He began to regale her with the stories he had told other before her when they came to treat him. He told her of the run-down apartment, one he shared with his mother, how he worked as a clown, being targeted and attacked, the hospital job, the mind-opening events on the train, his fear at his own empty emotions after killing them. She knew this wasn’t real, that the story he told witch such excitement and thrills and pain were part of a fantasy his mind created; possibly to test her reactions not seeing any. She stayed quiet, stayed calm, would only respond when prompting to get more of the story from her patient. He had been surprised, she didn’t seem affected, didn’t seem bothered by the graphic detail or the joy he almost seemed to take in retelling the story. She seemed to be asking for more, wanting to hear the full story, and only rarely took notes more focused on him and his story. She really was something different compared to all those that had come before making it much easier for him to confess the story.

He spoke of his mother, with anger and heartbreak, of her lies to him, of the letter she had constantly written and his reactions to the contents, how he and Bruce were related then suddenly weren’t, the pain of the truth about his mother’s health and who he really was to her, the all consuming anger and the release with his mother.

He seemed to take delight in telling her every detail, of telling her how it felt and how he finally seemed to have found himself, while she took notes on everything. There were subtle changes to the story, things he embellished or added, that made it different to what she had written before and she made sure to keep note of each change. He seemed to avoid talking about the woman he usually talked of and emphasised how he had been in solitude; any notes she made kept away from him trying not to trigger him. It was dangerous to let him know her mindset, he could easily use it against her, could change his story to fit her beliefs.

He began to recount the phone call which invited him to the Murray Franklin Show, his favourite show, after teasing him and making a mockery of him, all adding to his pain and anger. It had begun to build him up and tear him down all within moments until that phone call where people finally seemed to see him. The excitement and glee in his voice only grew as he spoke about what he planned, his rehearsals, the pure delight he took at killing the ex-colleague who helped him lose his job, the thrill of the chase through the train and the chaos that came. She could see his hands begin to shake with the excitement at recalling the events his life seemed to be built around and it seemed to be the only time he truly smiled without fear and or his condition affecting him. She felt like she was truly seeing him, seeing what the world rejected, seeing what made him what he was, seeing the pleasure and joy in things that weren’t true, but his mind had believed to be reality.

He began to wave his arms, almost acting out his every move as he grew close to the end of his story talking about his experience on the Talk Show and how his actions brought about chaos. He took great pride in the respect and mayhem that he had created, and she feared just how far down the rabbit hole he had sunk. She feared that she wouldn’t be able to pull him out of whatever twisted chaos had sunk its claws into his mind. She could see how dangerous he could be watching how his mind was consumed by the fantasy of his life and how others before him had been hurt not paying attention or treating it seriously. She had known he was dangerous before she came, that she had killed before, but seeing just how corrupted he was, truly frightened her. Those she had come across before she could usually find some form of motivation for their actions even if it was just because they had found it enjoyable. Arthur was something unlike those before, there wasn’t necessarily a joy in the killing or a method to the act, and he was far more emotional in his killings with stronger emotions triggering them; his perceived killing of his mother, the ‘shooting’ of Murray Franklin as a punchline, when his fear and anxiety had overwhelmed him and he ‘instigated’ the clown protests. She hadn’t expected to see how dangerous he was this early on, expecting him to be withdrawn and hidden, so seeing him become so lost in his fantasy already made her question how dangerous he could be.

He had seemed so proud of the mayhem he instigated, how his shooting on live TV had been such a thrill, how it had finally seemed to give hi the attention he had always been sure he would never have. He didn’t seem to be egotistical or narcissistic, but he had been proud of what he’d done and had enjoyed the attention it brought him; after years of seemingly being a nobody, who wouldn’t enjoy it? She couldn’t help feeling sympathy for the diagnosed psychopath, who didn’t seem to match other diagnoses before, seeing how he tried to build a world outside of the building he had spent his whole life. Everything he had told her, excluding the adoption, were lies, were part of whatever fantasy he had chosen to follow instead of the reality of his life, and the peak of that fantasy was the almost worship-like care the anarchistic had showed the man. As he reached that peak he seemed to sit with his chest out, his arms spread wide as the cuffs would allow, a big smile on his face like the whole world was his, like nothing could tear him down and then he slowly seemed to sink.

The tension in the room seemed to face as he slowly shrunk back down in his seat letting his mind cloud over again with the doubt and anxiety. He puffed more actively on his cigarette, obviously trying to distract himself from the silent room, going back into the pose he had sunk into when he first came into the room. He picked at the edge of the table again and his eyes didn’t seem to linger long on the woman scrutinising him; clearly far more tense again. Every time he looked at her he seemed to be searching her eyes for something before he smirked looking back down to the table.

“Do you believe me? Do you think what I have told you is true? Or are you like all the rest that believe what they read in those files?”

The way he looked sent chills up and down her back again before he cleared her throat and shifted her feet a little under the table. He was pushing her closer to the edge they had both been balancing on seemingly waiting to see the moment she would fall.

“Whether I believe you or not doesn’t matter. What matters is that I listened, that I heard you and that I know what you want me, or need me, to know. I am here to listen, to learn what you may need from me and what I can learn from you.”

He paused and looked up at her surprised, not expecting her to be so blunt and honest with him, and a smile seemed to creep on his gave; the unnerving grin a reaction to whatever had come to his mind. The attention focused back on her again made her feel really uncomfortable and she couldn’t help fidgeting in her seat seeing how his smirk pulling his face into an awkward and unnerving expression; something that seemed twisted and corrupted. Laughter had begun to bubble in his throat but suddenly stopped as he focused on her and she could feel a lump form in her throat at how he slowly stood.

“You think you know? You think you can understand what’s going on in here?” He pressed slammed his hands hard against the desk making her jump. His hand quickly pointed to his skull as he spoke jabbing at it erratically. “How can you know? You are not here! You cannot hear the thoughts in my head! Even I don’t always know why but you think you will?”

“I never know, I just help people to understand their own minds. I never think I could ever know someone else’s mind, but I know ways to breath thoughts down. I know ways to manage and help understand why thoughts creep in the way they do.”

Her answer seemed to calm him, seemed to soothe whatever wild thoughts were bouncing around his head. He slowly sat back down again and watched the way panic and fear lingered in the depth of her eyes. He enjoyed watching her shifting and moving clearly on edge with his actions and she clearly couldn’t get comfortable. She began to pack up, not feeling safe continuing the interview the way she was, trying to break his gaze from her for a moment so she had a moment to think straight. Arthur was sure he was going to have fun with her, that he was going to enjoy discovering her lines, that he could explore her limits and lines and see where the line was. She watched him carefully and began to question him, began to ask him about his life there, how he had seen everything change, what he might hope to see change and how he believed the sessions would help; only getting fairly brief responses as he looked down at the table. As it came to the end of the session, her nerves began to settle more becoming comfortable enough to question the man as she finished getting everything together readying to leave.

“I honestly thought you might kill me, I had expected something, anything, a threat, especially with what you’d done to those who have come before me.”

“Why would I kill you? You think you can help me, seem to genuinely want to know what makes me tick, so why not see whether you can solve whatever puzzle you seem to think there is?”

His eyes focused on her notebook and once again she felt a chill. His eyes almost seemed to refuse to look away from it as she tried to tuck it away and keep what she had written from him. He didn’t need more stimulation or something to change his mind towards attacking her. After that first session, she felt differently about Arthur than any of the therapists although she did still fear him and knew he could be dangerous. She had hope for him, she hoped she could help him and resolve whatever fantasy was in his mind. There was a dark corruption and sinister air about him, whatever corruption Arkham seemed to bring, and as she watched him be taken away he called out to her.

“Until next time (Y/N), perhaps the next one will be me hearing your story.”

His laugher echoed through the corridors, watching him be dragged away slowly made realisation dawn on her. She had never told him her name, had kept her name badge hidden from view, kept everything that might reveal who she was hidden so he couldn’t use that against her. She couldn’t figure out how he knew her name, how he learned it, but he knew it somehow. She nearly doubted going back, nearly planned to stay away and never return to face the maniac before her. She feared what he might do next time, what might happen if she did return, but she had to try to help him, to heal him, to give him his reality to give him a chance of leaving the hell hole that had made him into a monster.


End file.
